Circumvent
by meetmeatthecoda
Summary: "There's a weight on his shoulders, dark circles under his eyes, a drag in his voice that she hasn't heard before. He's tired." Picking up when Red gets released from prison in 6x12. Liz is concerned about his mental and physical state after his close brush with death and decides to confront him. Lizzington. Part 5 of Prison Possibilities.


When she catches sight of him walking through the prison gates, head held high with a blinding smile on his face, her heart thrills almost violently in her chest.

_He's finally free._

With the way relief is singing through her veins, Liz can do nothing but beam back at him, at Red, here and alive and walking towards her, opening his arms for a hug and she falls into him, breathes him in, never wants to leave his embrace.

(He was almost gone from her forever and, yes, it was all because of her but now she knows. And she'll never make that mistake again.)

When Red pulls back, it's too soon and she hopes she doesn't imagine the reluctance in his limbs, the way they linger around her, warming her through all her winter layers, and she wants to stay.

(She doesn't want to let him go.)

But he's moving forward to embrace Dembe and she can't stand in the way of that, so she watches, pleased to witness the reunion of the two men who have become so dear to her. She feels her throat tighten absurdly at the sight and, after the events of today, she feels perilously close to some kind of a crying jag that she doesn't have time to begin right now.

So, she distracts herself by asking about the next step in the case. Because only once this whole thing is dealt with and Red's safety is guaranteed, will she be able to go home, relax, and indulge in that cry.

(Right now, she just wants to do her very best to save him.)

But when Red cheerfully informs her that he doesn't have a clue what to do next, Liz admits to herself with a sigh that things probably couldn't have been that simple anyway. She'll just have to wait for that cry. Oh well.

Instead, she climbs into the backseat of the Mercedes with Red, not interested in being anywhere but by his side for the time being.

(For the foreseeable future, actually. The same future she had been so reluctant to see before all this. That is, until he was strapped to a table and staring at her, because funnily enough, that's all it took to throw things wildly into perspective.

And she has a feeling she'll be thinking a lot about the future in the coming weeks.)

For now, the backseat is pleasantly dark and warm, the street lights periodically lighting up Red's beloved face as Dembe drives them through the quiet streets of D.C. and Liz can't stop staring. She's still having trouble believing that he's really here next to her, after the meal they shared, the confession she made, the goodbyes they said.

(She was so sure they would never be here again. And she was so scared.)

But sitting here now, gazing at his face, feeling distinctly overwhelmed and starved for contact at the same time, Liz does the only thing she can think of. Heedless of the seatbelt cutting into her side, she slides as far along the backseat as she can towards Red, stopping just shy of being pressed against his side, and takes his gloved hand in her own. She can feel Red turn to look at her, curious and surprised, but he says nothing.

(And he doesn't move away. Thank god.)

But Liz frowns down at the expensive leather pressed against her cheap, store-bought wool, preventing what she really wants, and she makes another quick decision based on instinct alone, indulging inner urges she wouldn't have dared listen to before she saw him eat pickled herring and tell her about his mother in soft, broken tones that made her want to hold him.

She quickly yanks off her glove, stuffing it into her coat pocket before doing the same to Red's, tugging on the leather with a gentler touch until it reveals his hand, all rough palm and tan skin. Liz smiles to herself as she tucks his glove into her other pocket and wraps her hand around his, something deep inside her settling at the feeling of his skin on hers.

(He's always so warm.)

With a contented sigh, Liz leans her head back against the headrest, closing her eyes and occasionally running her thumb along the back of Red's hand, taking comfort in the way he squeezes her fingers every few minutes.

(This is what she wanted.)

Even with her eyes closed, Liz can feel Red staring at her, but she chooses to ignore him, instead wanting to enjoy the grounding physical contact between them, and she suspects after the events of today, he does too. He just won't admit it, either to himself or to her. So, she'll do it for the both of them.

(And as she drifts off into a doze, comforted by Red's presence, she doesn't see his face as he gazes at her in the dark, reverent and grateful and sad all at once.)

* * *

Naturally, the case turns out to be more complicated than they expected. Liz and the team spend a long time in the Post Office trying to locate the dossier, with Aram using every trick he knows to find out whose hands it's ended up in. Red comes and goes, leaving to meet contacts and call in intel as he gathers it, working from the outside to help them, and thereby help himself.

It would all seem very normal and characteristic of their operations before all this prison nonsense started but something tells Liz it's not. Because she can see a difference in Red when he walks into the Post Office, hear it in his voice when he calls her on the phone. There's a weight on his shoulders, dark circles under his eyes, a drag in his voice that she hasn't heard before.

He's tired.

And why wouldn't he be, after the events of the last few weeks? Hell, she could crawl into bed and sleep for days and she only visited that dark, foreboding place called prison.

(Granted, she wouldn't sleep soundly, given that she knows the fatigue clinging to Red like a shadow is all her fault.)

It's only on Red's third or fourth phone call to her, telling her he's gathered new intel, actually met with Moreau somehow so he's coming in to update them, that he gives a sigh so exhausted and drained that, even through her crackly phone speaker, Liz _aches_. She aches for him, for all the damage she's done, all the sleep he's lost on her account, all the pain she's caused him. And, most of all, she aches to hold him again. Perhaps it's odd to want to hold a grown man, a crime lord, no less, but she doesn't care.

(Besides, the dormant psychologist inside Liz somehow assures her that Red is absolutely craving somewhere to rest his weary body, someone to trust enough to rest with. And she wants it to be her.)

When the elevator doors clank open to reveal him, Liz is already looking, gazing at the chipped yellow paint and waiting for him to appear. She sees Dembe before she notices Red, leaning heavily against the wall of the elevator with his eyes closed.

Oh.

(He's so tired.)

He straightens up as soon as he notices the doors have opened, not seeing her standing off to the side of the room, and Liz watches as the Concierge persona descends over him, the smug, self-assured look he always adopts here in this place. But it's not quite complete. Liz can see the gaps in his armor, the falter in his walk, the small, subtle things that betray his bone-deep exhaustion.

(And, oh, she's hurting for him.)

But he pushes himself forward into the room, looking around with dull eyes to locate the different members of their team. As his gaze passes over her, leaning against a pillar in the shadow of the room and unabashedly staring at him, it lingers only for a second before an odd expression crosses his face, something strange that she's never seen before, anxious and uncomfortable, and his gaze skitters away.

Liz frowns to herself.

That's not right.

Red has never been anything but stimulated in her presence, sometimes positively and more often negatively, but he's never shied away from her attention. He's always seemed to crave it, revel in it.

Desire it.

But the way Red continues avoids her gaze, even when she moves forward into the war room to contribute to the discussion of the case, it prickles on the back of her neck. The way he answers any of her queries or comments with a professional air, no emotion, no playful subtext or suggestive comments that were the annoying norm only weeks ago.

(Even though, if there was a time for Liz to realize how much she actually adores his characteristic "Red" attitude, all that ridiculous pomp and circumstance, the idea that it would be a few hours after he escaped death and waltzed out of a high security prison and into her arms…well, that would make sense.)

But the way Red is keeping her firmly at an emotional distance measuring several city blocks from no more than three feet away from her completely unnerves her, frightens her, upsets her. Her first thought is that he may know her secret, that it was her that turned him in. But Dembe greeted her with his normal pleasantly quiet smile, giving nothing away that may hint something has changed.

So, that's not it.

But Red still makes a beeline for the elevator as soon as the team decides on a plan of action, Dembe following close behind, with not so much as a glance in her direction. Liz feels strangely hurt as she watches the heavy doors close behind him, his gaze turned carefully away from her, and she wraps her arms around her waist as she wanders back to her office.

(And if she feels the tell-tale prick of tears in her eyes, she'll blame it on the fact that she still hasn't had a chance for that cry.)

Liz slumps into her desk chair, remembering all too clearly the hug they shared outside the prison just hours ago, the warmth of his hand in the backseat, the way he gently woke her from her doze when they arrived at her apartment, and the way her head had somehow drifted down to rest on his shoulder in her sleep.

(Even though her nap was under ten minutes long, she's sure she hasn't rested that well since the day Jennifer made the call.)

But that relieved comfort and closeness is gone from them now, the air between them permeated with unease and discomfort, something tenuous and jagged, no longer warm and gentle.

And Liz doesn't know why.

But she wants to find out.

* * *

It's only after Moreau, so briefly in their custody, is killed, the dossier lost once again, and the charges against Red gone with it, do things begin to slow down. And Red is no longer the only one that has exhaustion physically weighing him down; it's been days since any member of the team got more than a few hours of sleep before trudging back into the Post Office, determined to solve the case and assure Red's safety.

Now that things have calmed slightly, the most pressing issue being just a mountain of paperwork, everyone's eyelids are heavy, shoulders slumping, coffee mugs empty and abandoned. They're in poor shape and none of them have been in prison recently. So, Liz can't exactly blame Red when he announces that he's leaving.

But that doesn't mean she has to like it.

"Where are you going?"

Aram asks the question for her since Liz's mouth is hanging open in shock as she stares at Red, taken off guard and starting to panic.

"Someplace warm. I'm wheels up in forty-five."

(But she's not ready to let him go yet.)

And the thought that he would just up and leave after such a tumultuous few weeks, after such a close brush with death, _after everything they've been through,_ has Liz's chest getting tight, suddenly squeezing and constricting at the thought of Red pulling one of his classic disappearing acts, not hearing from him for weeks on end until he's good and ready to return, after how close it was, how close he came to –

No. No, she won't have it.

And the chilling fact that _he's still not looking at her_ has every hair on her body standing up on end because she has the funniest feeling, the most stupid, irrational fear, that if he leaves right now –

(He won't come back.)

It's those thoughts that have her hurrying after him as he pivots on his heel and heads for the elevator. She moves forward without a word, keeps her eyes trained on the broad line of his shoulders, the fedora tilted forward on his head, the slight bulge of the holster she knows he keeps clipped onto his belt at the small of his back – until she's close enough to slide right into the elevator behind him as the doors clang shut.

"And where do you think you're going?"

The truth of it all is there in his surprised blink as he turns to face her, and Liz knows she was right. He's so tired he didn't even hear her coming. She caught him by surprise.

(That's a first.)

Red gives a sigh and a slow blink as the elevator ascends, Dembe in the corner, standing quietly and trying in vain to give them some privacy.

"As I said," he rumbles, fatigue bleeding into his voice as he continues to avoid eye contact with her. "Away."

"Why?" she demands, a little rude, a little desperate, a little afraid because all she's trying to do is _care_.

"It's been a difficult few weeks, Elizabeth, I think that –"

"No," she interrupts tactlessly. "I mean, why were you going to leave without telling me? And, on that note, why is that you suddenly can't stand my presence?"

Red frowns at his shoes. "I'm not sure what you –"

"Red, please, don't insult me," Liz sighs, suddenly hearing exhaustion creep into her own voice and feeling that stupid prick in her eyes again. "I used to be a pretty decent psychologist and even I can see that, since the night you were released, you haven't looked at me once. And _I don't know why_."

A little of her fear slips into her voice at those last few words and she refrains from wrapping her arms around her waist for the meager comfort of it. She just wants him to listen.

(She just wants to hold him again.)

Red closes his eyes briefly, squeezing them shut with a slightly pained expression, before he feels the elevator shutter to a stop at ground level. At the prospect of freedom, his eyes open hopefully, and he tries to edge to the door.

Not so fast.

Liz steps smoothly in front of him, only moving slightly to the side to allow Dembe to slip out, obviously relieved to escape.

"You're not leaving until you answer me," she says firmly, arms crossed now, a show of defiance that is nothing like the weirdly uneasy feeling inside her chest. "Even if we have to ride in this elevator all night."

Red looks wistfully after Dembe before hanging his head in defeat. "I'm not sure what you want me to say."

"I want you to explain," Liz blurts, hurt and confused. "How did we go from having dinner together and hugging and holding hands to not talking? I don't understand what I did, we were better than we've ever been before…before you almost…"

Red's eye twitches.

Bingo.

It's something to do with his almost execution then. Liz frowns, thinking backwards quickly. Dembe drove them home, they held hands, they hugged, he was released, he was almost injected, Cooper called, they were in his cell, she told him she lov—"

Oh.

Liz's eyes widen as she stares at Red, piecing together his uncomfortable avoidance of her, his almost embarrassed countenance. She's never known him to be embarrassed. Not in front of her. But when she told him she loved him, well, he looked so completely disbelieving. And, after he wasn't actually killed, perhaps he thought that she –

That she –

Oh.

"Red," she begins, softer now, hoping what she suspects isn't true, starting to hurt inside just at the thought. "What I told you back in your cell…do you think…I was just saying that because you were going to be…killed?"

And Red's eyes flick up to hers for the first time in days. Anxious. Expectant.

Afraid.

Oh, Red.

Without another word, Liz steps forward to wrap her arms around him.

(And, oh, she's finally holding him again. And it's everything.)

He stiffens in her embrace, standing rigidly in the circle of her arms, until she brings a hand up to ghost over the back of his head. At the sensation, he finally relaxes with a shutter, pressing his face into the lapel of her coat, and bringing his arms up to rest on her back.

"Red," she breathes into his ear. "What I told you that night is just as true right now. I only said it _then_ because…well, I was afraid that I wouldn't get the chance to later." She huffs a watery laugh. "I would never say that just to placate you on the eve of…" She doesn't want to say it. She can't bear it. Instead, she repeats her confession, the one that has been true for longer than she's been willing to admit and will probably be true for even longer.

"Red, I love you."

Red makes an odd noise into her coat, something between a sob and a laugh, that has her holding him tighter, as close as she can, wanting nothing more than to reassure him of how much she cares.

(She would never throw those three words around. Certainly not with him. The poor man is damaged enough as it is.)

Liz stands holding him until the elevator beeps impatiently, rudely intruding upon their moment. Red pulls back first, clearing his throat, and Liz has to wipe at her eyes.

(It wasn't her crying jag. But she still feels so much better.)

"Well," Red speaks first, still sounding hoarse and tired, but now strangely relieved. "It's been quite the roller coaster, hasn't it?"

Liz laughs with him, unable to help herself at the gross understatement. "Yes, it certainly has," she chuckles. And following that same instinct that had her taking his hand in the car, she reaches up to cup his face, sweeping her thumb over the dark circle under his eye. "And you need to rest. You're exhausted."

Red gazes at her for a moment before nodding slowly. "Yes, I am," he says simply.

Liz takes one more moment, feeling him sink a little into her hand, before she gently pulls back with a deep breath. "So," she says brightly, intentionally lightening the mood, taking his arm and finally leading him out of the elevator. "Where are we going?"

But at her innocent question, Red stops in his tracks, tugging her to a halt only a few steps into the parking garage. "We?" he repeats disbelievingly.

Liz just blinks at him, secretly enjoying catching him by surprise for the second time that day. "Of course," she answers simply. "If you think I'm letting you out of my sight for the foreseeable future, you've got another thing coming."

Red just gapes at her.

Liz takes pity on him, squeezing his arm and stepping in a little closer. "I think we've spent enough time apart in the last few weeks, don't you?" she quips easily, trying to keep it light, trying not to infuse her voice with her desperate need to be near him. But it slips into her next words anyway.

"I'm not ready to let you go yet."

(She doesn't think she'll ever be.)

Red gazes at her for a long moment, looking a little as if he's staring into the sun. Liz waits patiently.

(Because if he needs a little adjustment to the idea of someone caring for him, well then, contrary to popular belief, she can be patient.

For him.)

The moment Red's lips pull up into a faint smile, she knows she's won. And it's only a moment more before he's taking her hand and pulling her toward the Mercedes where Dembe is steadfastly awaiting them.

"We can go wherever you like, Lizzie," Red answers cheerfully, sounding more like himself than he has in days. "Why don't you choose?"

"Hmm," Liz hums thoughtfully, pretending to think for a moment. "I like what you said."

"And what's that, Lizzie?"

"Someplace warm."

Red squeezes her hand.

"I think we can do that."


End file.
